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  ***

  I waved a hand to get their attention. “What about you, Mother? Did you learn anything?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I had quite an education. Gavin McClure and Faith Hollingsworth have very different notions about love and marriage.” Mother pulled a set of handouts from her purse and gave them to Wilson.

  “Did you talk to anyone?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm. Mykal Kerriker is such a nice young man, and he’s very concerned about you, Jessie.”

  Wilson looked up from whatever he was reading. “You were discreet, Tessie?”

  She nodded, but apparently Mykal had asked some rather pointed questions about Penelope’s death and how I was handling it.

  “I’m the one who’ll have trouble being discreet around Gavin and Mykal,” I said. “They’re my friends.”

  “They’re also suspects,” Wilson said, and while I rolled my eyes, he asked Mother who else she’d spoken with.

  “I was terribly rude,” she said. “I told Mykal I needed to be closer to the front to hear well, and left him high and dry to go sit with Roger Hollingsworth.”

  I thought about all the comings and goings of the morning and realized Tessie had never officially met Roger. “You knew who he was?” I asked.

  “It didn’t take a rocket scientist, did it?” Mother reminded me how few men attended the Happy Ever After. “And he walked in with Faith. That was a big clue.” She tapped her temple and continued, “I introduced myself to him, but then how to introduce the topic of Penelope? Discreetly, that is.”

  “I’m sure you did fine,” Wilson said.

  Mother shrugged and informed us Roger had solved that problem for her. “He couldn’t wait to discuss the ‘fiasco.’ That’s the word he used to describe the tragedy.” She sighed. “Roger told me he wasn’t at all surprised such a ‘fiasco’ happened. ‘It was only a matter of time.’ he said.”

  “Roger disapproves of the Happily Ever After,” I said.

  “He disapproves of everything, Honeybunch. This conference, romance, romance writers.” Mother thought about it. “That’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “I got the impression he’s uncomfortable with his wife’s success.” She pursed her lips. “That’s ironic also, considering Roger doesn’t work at all.”

  I sat forward. “Excuse me? I thought he was some sort of high-powered businessman?”

  “Not anymore. He and his brother ran a family business together. Something to do with import-export. But evidently it folded years ago, and Roger hasn’t gotten back on his feet since.”

  I thought about how many years I’d run into Roger Hollingsworth at the Happily Ever After with no knowledge of this failed business and complimented Mother’s stellar sleuthing skills.

  Wilson groaned, but in the next breath he asked her for more. “Roger mention the name of the outfit?”

  She shook her head.

  He looked at me. “You remember?”

  “Heck, I don’t even remember his last name. Faith mentioned it this morning, but I’ve forgotten.” I frowned at the papers poking out of Wilson’s pocket and told Mother that Roger had changed his last name to his wife’s pen name. “It doesn’t seem in character.”

  “It’s fishy,” she agreed. She squinted at my husband. “I don’t suppose Wilson Nightingale would suit you?”

  He groaned again and stood up. “Pizza?”

  “And a cold bottle of Korbel,” I said. “And say hello to Russell for me.”

  “Lieutenant Densmore?” Mother clapped in glee. “Is he part of our sleuthing team? How clever of you, Wilson, honey!” She seemed not to notice Wilson honey’s reaction and told us that she also should be running along. “Louise will be waiting for me.” She stood up and took his arm. “We’ll be your eyes and ears.”

  My poor husband. He begged her to remember the discretion thing. But then he corrected himself. “I know you’ll be discreet, Tessie. It’s Louise I’m worried about.” He turned around and corrected himself again. “It’s my wife I’m worried about. Open up to no one but me. You got it?”

  I saluted and reminded him about the pepperoni.

  Chapter 17

  Alone at last. I sank back onto the couch and immediately wished Wilson had left me that list of names to contemplate.

  “Of course he took it with him,” I told the Cupid. “And I’m sure he is, at this very moment, discussing it with Lieutenant Densmore. But am I in on it? Of course not. I’m too busy being a prisoner in my own hotel room.” I blinked twice. “Discussing my plight with a chunk of marble.”

  Mr. Cupid had zero sympathy, and I realized how much I missed Snowflake. Lord knows my cat seldom agrees with me, but at least she voices an opinion whenever I start complaining about my exceedingly annoying husband.

  Thoughts of home led me to thoughts of my neighbors. I reached for my cell phone only to realize they’d been thinking about me also. At least Candy had—she’d called six times.

  I listened to her messages, which began arriving at ten that morning.

  “Jessie!” she squealed. “You’ll never guess in a million years what time Karen got home last night! Call me!”

  By noon and message number three, Candy sounded a bit less delighted. “I guess you’re busy with the Hall of Fame thingy. Either that or Wilson killed you about the paramour thingy. Even so, call me. We need to talk some sense into Karen.”

  By message number six, Candy had lost all patience. She mentioned she was working the late shift at Tate’s but promised to keep her phone handy. “Something you obviously aren’t doing. Call me! You’ll never guess in a million years where Pierpont Rigby took Karen to dinner last night. Call me!”

  I called her.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Oh, Jessie! I’m so glad you called! I can’t tell you.”

  “Excuse me? You left umpteen messages insinuating who knows what. You’ve got to tell me.”

  “Karen should tell you.”

  I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “At least tell me what time she got home.”

  Candy considered her answer. “I think she should tell you that, too. I’m not supposed to know.”

  I opened my eyes to give them a good roll. “Were you spying on her, Sweetie?”

  “Maybe.”

  Make that, definitely. I know my condominium building, and I know my nosy neighbor. Conveniently located on the second floor, Candy Poppe makes a habit of sitting in her doorway and listening in on anything interesting that happens above her—my place. Or below her—Karen’s place.

  “You should call her, Jessie. Like, this minute.”

  “Don’t you want to know what’s happening here?”

  “I already know what’s happening,” she said impatiently. “You got your Hall of Fame award, and you finally told Wilson about the Paramour for a Day.” She hesitated. “You did tell him, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Gosh, I’m glad he didn’t kill you.”

  “No, but speaking of murder—”

  “Jessie! I don’t mean to be rude, but you really need to call Karen. Talk some sense into her, but, like, be subtle. She’ll kill me if she finds out I told you anything.”

  “But you haven’t told me anyth—”

  She hung up.

  ***

  I called Karen.

  I had all good intentions of being subtle, but then I realized how little I was supposed to know. Candy was the one who told me about Karen’s date with Pierpont Rigby. I squinted. Was I even supposed to know about Karen’s date with Pierpont Rigby?

  “Jess?” she was asking. “Are you there? What’s up?”

  “Umm,” I said brilliantly. “How are the cats?”

  “The fat one’s getting fatter, despite that supposed diet.”

  “Poor Bernice,” I said.

  “She must be sneaking chocolate when no one’s watching,” my chocoholic friend told me.

  I blinked twice.
“Chocolate kills cats.”

  “Well?” Karen asked. “How did Wilson take the news?”

  “News?”

  “You have told him, haven’t you?”

  “Told him what?”

  “Duh! About his date. About the paramour thing.”

  “Oh that.” I waved a hand. “Wilson’s looking forward to it.”

  Karen harrumphed. “At least he didn’t kill you.”

  “Speaking of dates,” I said and let the silence hang.

  She skipped a beat. “Kiddo told you, didn’t she?”

  “Not very much, but yes.”

  “Figures.” Karen sighed dramatically. “Can we talk about the Hall of Fame instead? Please?”

  I glanced at my Cupid. “Woe is me.”

  “Woe? Why woe? You’ve been waiting for this thing for years, Jess.”

  “Apparently, I’m still waiting.” I told her what had happened and could almost hear Karen shake her head.

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again, girlfriend. You and your mother are like corpse magnets.”

  “It gets worse,” I said. “It’s possible—possible, mind you—that I was the intended victim.”

  “Good thing you’re married to a cop. You and Wilson will figure it out. You always do. But in the meantime stay safe, okay?”

  I snarled at the door. “He’s put me under house arrest. I can’t even go down to the bar for champagne.”

  “Oh boy. Things really are dire.”

  “Not for Wilson. He likes bossing me around.”

  “He likes keeping you alive, Jess. He loves you.”

  “Speaking of love. How was your date?”

  “Speaking of woe is me. Did Candy tell you what he did?”

  I racked my brains trying to think of any negative publicity I’d ever heard about Pierpont Rigby—or more specifically—about Pierpont Rigby and women. Nothing came to me, but I braced myself anyway. “Did he do something wrong, Karen?”

  “Yes!” she said, and I jumped. “He took me to New York City. In his private jet.”

  I fell off the couch, and had to right myself before continuing. “Umm. How was it?”

  “It was his private jet!” she said irritably. “How do you think it was?”

  I told her it certainly didn’t sound woeful. “It sounds—” I searched for the right word, “—it sounds fantastical.”

  “Yeah, right. And after the private plane ride with his private pilot, his private chauffeur picked us up in his private limousine and took us to Tavern on the Green.”

  I again fell off the couch. “You do know that’s the swankiest restaurant in Manhattan?”

  “Of course I know! I was just there. They closed the place down for us. It was just me and Piers. All private.”

  “How nice!” I scowled. “It was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “What do you think? Oh, and I lied. It wasn’t all private. It was me and Piers and about a hundred waiters, chefs, and sommeliers.”

  I pursed my lips and contemplated my own woefully bereft ice bucket. “Did the sommeliers suggest a nice champagne?” I asked.

  “We had two bottles of this Don, or Dome-something stuff. You like champagne, Jess. Have you heard of it?”

  “Dom Pérignon,” I said and gave up on the couch altogether.

  About then I was interrupted by an incessant rapping on the door.

  “Just when things are getting good,” I grumbled. I asked Karen to hold on and held my hand to the receiver. “Is that you, Wilson?”

  “No,” a female voice answered, and I was glad I was sitting on the floor.

  ***

  “What’s going on?” Karen asked me.

  Woe was me—Tori Fister was going on.

  I took a deep breath and managed to stagger to my feet. “Someone’s at the door,” I said.

  “Don’t open to anyone but Wilson.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Bodyguard.” I told her I had no intention of opening the door, promised I’d call her back in a jiffy, and hung up.

  “What do you want?” I asked the door.

  “I want to talk to you.” Tori rapped again. “Open up.”

  I cringed, grimaced, and winced, and wondered why my heart was racing when a solid, locked, and chained door stood between us.

  “Everyone missed you at dinner,” she was saying. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No worries.” I tried sounding casual. “Wilson’s bringing me pizza.”

  “He’s not in there?”

  Damn!

  “Umm. He’ll be back any second,” I squeaked and hoped to God I was right.

  “What kind of pizza do you like?” Tori asked.

  I winced again. “Pepperoni?”

  “If you were my client, I’d make sure you had pepperoni pizza every night.”

  I said something about watching my diet, and Roaring Tori moved on to the real topic—that “big, huge, outrageous” film option for Shimmering Silk.

  Outrageous was the word for it. As was nonexistent. I told Tori I wasn’t interested.

  “Your mother certainly is.”

  My heart started racing again. “You talked to my mother?”

  “I tried to. But Geez Louise grabbed her away before we could discuss which actress should play Slipper. It is Slipper, isn’t it? What do you think, Adelé?”

  “I think I need an Advil,” I said and started toward the bathroom.

  “I brought champagne,” Tori called out, and I stopped short. “Open up and we can have a glass before your husband gets back. Heck,” she said. “We can have the whole deal finalized before the pizza arrives. I brought the paperwork.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said and slid to the floor.

  Somehow Tori sensed my change in position, and I’m certain she sat down, too.

  “This is absurd,” she said. “Let me in so we can discuss things in comfort. I know you have a lovely couch and thousands of pillows in there.”

  I blinked twice. “Have you been in here?”

  “No, but I’ve seen these suites.”

  I thought of Penelope Shay. “Of course you have,” I whispered to myself. I stood up and in no uncertain terms told Tori to go away.

  “But what about seeing Shimmering Silk on the silver screen?”

  What about it? I said I wasn’t listening anymore and walked away from the door. “I’m on the phone,” I called out and hit redial.

  “You’ll be sorry,” she said, but proof that there is a God in heaven, I heard her retreating footsteps.

  ***

  “Where were we?” I asked Karen. “Oh yes—private jet, Manhattan, Tavern on the Green, Dom Pérignon.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she said. “I take it that wasn’t Wilson?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You didn’t let the bad guy in?”

  “Hardly,” I said again. “So what happened after dinner?”

  Karen sighed. “He tried to take me to Tiffany’s. It’s a jewelry store. Have you heard of it?”

  “I do believe I have,” I squeaked, and for some reason decided to get myself resettled on the floor.

  “Yeah, well, Piers said he liked my pearls. And I was stupid enough to tell him they aren’t mine. I borrowed yours. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Absolutely. So Pierpont Rigby took you to Tiffany’s?” I gave my head a good shake. “To buy pearls?”

  “You’re not listening, Jess. I said he tried to take me. I guess he called them when I was in the ladies room at that Tavern place, and this Tiffany’s place stayed open just for us—”

  Oh, yes. I was most happy to be situated on the floor.

  “—but I refused to go in when I realized what was going on.”

  I shook my head for the umpteenth time and casually asked what happened after the thwarted Tiffany’s excursion.

  “We came home. We didn’t land back in Clarence until after two,” she said. “Which I’m sure you already know.”

  “Candy told
me to ask you the time. But I do wish she had warned me a bit better.”

  “I hear you. The guy has nerve, huh?”

  I had shaken my head so much I was dizzy. But dizzy or not, I am Adelé Nightingale. And this would-be Romance Writers Hall of Famer insisted on knowing how the evening ended.

  “I just told you. We got back to Piers’ house, and I drove home from there.”

  “He didn’t umm? Umm?” I asked.

  “Ask me to stay over?”

  “Yeah that.”

  “Would you get a grip? It was our first date.” Karen spoke emphatically and told me she’d spent the night in her own bed. “But God knows the guy has enough bedrooms. He did invite me—”

  “Woo hoo! That’s the spirit!”

  “Spare me! He invited me because it was so late. And before you go all gaga on me, he was a complete gentleman.”

  “Well, darn.”

  “Girlfriend!”

  I promised to be good, and she continued, “He offered me any room in the house—other than his. I emphasize that because I don’t think Kiddo believed me. She waited up for me, you know?”

  “Of course she did. If I were home, I would have done the same.”

  “I have nosy neighbors.”

  “Absolutely.” I reminded my friend that she and Candy had been nosing into my romance with Wilson from the night I met the guy. “And I’ve never complained.”

  Karen laughed out loud. “Try again, Jess.”

  I did just that. “Okay, so take away the pomp,” I said. “Take away the private jet, the dinner at Tavern on the Green, the aborted shopping spree at Tiffany’s, and the tour of his Park Avenue penthouse, and then tell me. Did you enjoy his company?”

  “How do you know about his penthouse? I haven’t mentioned that.”

  “I think I read about it in the Homes section of the New York Times a few years back. So?” I asked. “Did you like him?”

  No answer.

  I repeated the question.

  “Maybe,” she said, but her response was exceedingly soft.

  I soldiered on. “Maybe yes or maybe no?”

  “Maybe yes,” she answered quietly. “Can we please drop it now?”